


Sunset of the Maltese Riviera

by Adelheid_Desgoffe_Taxis



Series: Zubrowka: A World Inside Out [4]
Category: The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 00:11:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1877739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adelheid_Desgoffe_Taxis/pseuds/Adelheid_Desgoffe_Taxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a scene from the life of Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis, Lord of Zubrowkian Lands, His Excellency the Count von Lutz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunset of the Maltese Riviera

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Memento Jopling.

…<<<…()…>>>…

 

...Count Dmitri’s first acquaintance with death happened on a mid-summer afternoon, unusually hot for a tiny Central European country. The air in the Wooden Parlour, where the tiny casket stood, felt stuffy and unpleasant, especially for the skinny, sickly boy of seven summers who would later become the next Lord of Schloß Lutz. The windows were closed because the Count and Countess were afraid their son would accidentally stand in a draft and catch a bad cold.

 

Little Dmitri’s parents – his short pudgy father and his tall graceful mother – were standing beside the now closed small wooden coffin with the family coat-of-arms and the image of a count’s crown carved on the lid. They were silent and motionless, dressed in black, their heads lowered. His mother was holding his father’s fat, heavy, pale, well-manicured right hand (which Dmitri always kissed deferentially before retiring for the night) in her thin and elegant left one. In the far corner of the room stood sullenly, also in black and close to one another, his three older sisters, “the three Valkyries”, as relatives sometimes referred to them, - though what a Valkyrie was, little Dmitri had no idea.

 

Hildegarde, one of the legion of the Schloß maids, a kind and plump middle-aged woman, who was present in the room along with her employers, leaned over to Dmitri and told him softly, with sadness and tears weaving into her mild voice:

 

\- Go say good-bye to your little brother, my dearie. Oh, poor boy, he was such a little angel. Pray for him, Dmitri, so that he goes to heaven peacefully.

 

Master Desgoffe-und-Taxis hesitantly walked over to his dear parents, still not quite understanding what was going on, acutely aware only of the feverish orange flames of the burning candles (they didn’t have electric light at the Schloß back then) and of how hot and thick and uneasy the atmosphere in the room felt.

 

Dmitri saw at once that his father’s eyes were unblinking and expressionless, almost blank. The Count was so different now, so unlike his usually bright, joyful, good-natured self; the event seemed to have hit him so hard that it was only the shell of him which was left to be seen. The kind-hearted maid’s eyes were also sad and heavy. But his mother’s… Dmitri didn’t understand people’s emotions all that well, he was so small and knew so little; but all the same he discerned in the Countess’ eyes some strange, half-disguised emotions completely different from the ones in his father’s and Hildegarde’s. She was looking neither at the casket nor at her husband nor at anyone else nor at anything in particular. Instead, she seemed to be plunged in some tense, turbulent thoughts.

 

The little heir moved closer to his father’s side and carefully entwined his small hands around his meaty left arm. The Count did not move, did not say a word, his eyes still transfixed on the casket; only his massive jaw and fat throat twitched slightly, almost imperceptibly.

 

“Goodbye, brother”, - Dmitri whispered shyly, obediently, placing a tentative hand on the dark shiny surface of the wooden casket. He knew somehow that his one-and-a-half-year-old brother Zsigmond, whom his dear Daddy seemed to love so much, to spend so much time with, was gone; but Dmitri just couldn’t understand where he had gone exactly and for how long. To heavens, Hildegarde said; surely, to those same heavens which Father Spitz – Re-ve-rend Spitz, as the adults called him, - often mentioned in his lengthy, dreary sermons back at the estate church. The heavens where God was reported to live enveloped in miraculous golden light and woolly white clouds, along with all the angels and the saints. If so, his little brother would be so lucky now, so pleased… But, strangely, his parents, his Daddy especially, did not seem delighted with that wonderful prospect at all.

 

Someone lightly touched Dmitri’s shoulder, and turning around, he saw Hildegarde the maid beckoning him with a placating smile. At the slight absent-minded nod of the Count, she led the little heir out of the Wooden Parlour through the Noblemen Hall and the Grand Drawing Room and the Hunting Chamber into the Green Dining Room. There she offered him some scones with raspberry jam and clotted cream as well as other delicious sugary treats made at the Grand Estate Kitchen where Dmitri was prohibited to enter. But then, almost the whole Schloß (with the exception of several public rooms) was banned for him to roam and explore, which was really fairly strange since he was supposed to become its rightful owner one day, as his father often said; but on this issue his mother was adamant. A particular recent episode was still fresh in the little boy’s memory, when she had ordered to beat Dmitri with a pine switch for slipping into his father’s Marble Study and inadvertently breaking an eggshell-china cup from a very expensive set depicting elaborate hunting scenes on every piece. And one earlier incident, as well, - when he was beaten with the said switch just for breaking into the Grand Wine Cellar where thousands of spirits of every variety were kept and where little Dmitri spent some time imagining himself inside a large, dark and damp mountain cavern, until the butler found him by mere chance and led him back to his infuriated mother.

 

Meanwhile, the Count agreed absent-mindedly to open the windows in the stuffy parlour, and the little casket was sent to the estate church for Reverend Spitz to pray over it. The funeral took place on the next day.

 

…<<<…()…>>>…

 

...The Holy Lutz Sepulcher – the Desgoffe-und-Taxis family crypt – was a gloomy, chilly, shadowy and somewhat eerie stone-clad place adjacent to the small but exquisite baroque St. Bernard Estate Church. They all lay there, little Dmitri’s ancestors and relatives, though the boy never had a chance to glimpse any of them. He has only seen them depicted on old cracked paintings that adorned the walls of a very long, wood-paneled first-floor gallery, the Ancestry Hall, and only when his father was in a mood merry enough to show the canvasses to his son and tell him something about his predecessors. And now, his little brother was there, too, together with them all.

 

After the funeral service had reached its end, the servants and villagers gathered in the estate church beside the Count von Lutz in order to “offer His Excellency their deepest condolences”. The Count listened to them silently, but seemed not to hear what exactly any of them was saying, however. And although, not wanting to oversee his younger son’s burial looking improperly, he was impeccably shaven and had his black, slightly curling (just the same as his son’s, actually) hair oiled smoothly, as usual, his broad pale face was grey and haggard, almost completely emotionless, and there were dark circles under his glassy eyes.

 

Master Desgoffe-und-Taxis, dressed in strict mourning attire, left the grim and uncomfortable company of his sisters and took his father’s arm in his, feeling too small and awkward in the unfamiliar doleful surroundings. There were tears in Dmitri’s eyes, and he looked unbelieving and afraid, but at the same time seemed more like an adult than he really was. Only now was he grasping the full meaning of what had happened – and still it was decisively, stubbornly eluding him.

 

\- Dear Father, - he whispered harshly, shakily, - Why did they have to put my little brother under the earth?.. He was going to depart to the Heavens, surely?.. Why not there, then?.. – His voice grew a little louder. – Zsigmond _will_ return to us pretty soon, won’t he?..

 

The Count put his arm clumsily on his only remaining son’s shoulder, the large onyx ring on his third finger gently scraping the fabric of the boy’s frock coat. Dmitri could hear his father swallow bitterly.

 

\- No, my dearest, - the Count managed to say stiffly, at last. – No, our Zsigmond will never return… He is now in the place where we all have to arrive eventually… Only in _his_ case, it happened much, much earlier than we had hoped.

 

Dmitri sighed ruefully, sad and disoriented; then, not daring to let go of his father’s hand, he looked around. His sisters remained in place, prim and unmoving, and his mother, standing beside them, stared with vacant eyes, so very different from the eyes of her husband and daughters, straight before herself, as if being mentally in a completely different place than this old family church. Despite the sheer heavenly beauty of this sacred building which raised one’s spirit even at such a mournful day; despite its elegant mahogany woodwork and gilded statues of saints; despite its beautiful red-and-gold stained-glass windows which on sunny days rendered a cheery sublime radiance to the whole place and were, in fact, the Count’s generous donation made after his little Dmitri’s birth, - despite this all, his mother seemed not to take any notice of anything around her. She appeared to be wholly unaware of either the sweet pleasant fragrance of incense or the sorrowful ruby candlelight or the golden glimmer around the elaborate altar crucifixion and the statues of the saints. And, most strangely, most strikingly, - her younger son’s pathetic fate seemed to be of absolutely no interest to her.

 

Dmitri’s eyes wandered around the moderately scaled nave until his gaze fell on the votive rack in front of the altar, outside the sanctuary, where several rows of candles in thick red glass vessels were burning, close to one another. One of the candles stood slightly aside, as though separated from all others on purpose. It seemed as if whoever had placed it there had done so only at the last moment, as if having nearly forgotten to, as if having at the time quite other thoughts in mind. Dmitri didn’t know who had left that particular candle, but the sight of it made him transfixed, hypnotized.

 

Little Dmitri looked at the lone votive candle for a long, long time, as its soft ruby glow, so resembling the one of the setting sun, waxed and waned, flickering timidly, as though in shame of the person who had nearly neglected to light it. He stood still, thinking of his dear lost brother, his would-be friend and playmate, who was in this world no more, and it seemed to him that the mellow saintly light was part of the poor little boy’s innocent soul.

 

…<<<…()…>>>…

 

…Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis, His Excellency Count von Lutz, opened his hazel-brown eyes, and his still memory-clouded gaze fell straight upon the setting bright-ruby sun which at that very moment nearly touched the surface of the calm evening sea. He had come here, on the seashore, after having spent the late afternoon at a small outdoor restaurant with some local cake made of sheep cheese and a half-bottle of fortified wine. With his sharp eyes slightly narrowed because of the sunshine, Dmitri took in the glorious view unfolding in front of him.

 

Now he understood pretty well why such a doleful recollection had suddenly visited him in such a marvelous place. It was certainly not because of sorrow for his long-deceased younger brother; he hadn’t had a chance to really start loving him, the late Zsigmond had been so small and lived so little. No, no such thing. Dmitri knew for sure that it was his mother whom the memory was really about. Her strange reaction, her cold-hearted reserve at the death of her son, which the future Count had barely perceived back then, now struck him with full force. Oh, this time he did know why she had been so distanced and restrained; she hadn’t been grieving for her child in the least, after all; she had just been worried about the future of her secret love affair which might have got known by her husband.

 

In fact, a couple days after the funeral little Dmitri unwittingly heard the Countess conversing with one of her visiting lady friends about some “meetings” at the Nebelsbad Colonnade, a grand mountainside landmark with its famous eleven deep springs, one month earlier. She had told the family then that she had gone there to restore her health, but in reality she had met there with her lovers. Dmitri’s sisters, being much his seniors and already understanding lots of things, had certainly not approved of such behavior but nonetheless had stayed silent. Dmitri himself hadn’t understood the subtleties back then, but now he _did_ realize what it was all about.

 

Sadly, his dear father, his only friend and ally in the whole family, had died suddenly less than a year later, surely having departed to the same blessed heavens where his younger son already resided. And although Dmitri had officially become the next Count von Lutz, it was, to everyone’s amazement, his mother who had inherited the bulk of the property according to her husband’s will. Then, rather quickly, his mother had married two hateful, sordid men one after another, and Dmitri’s sisters were never married, despite their mother constantly – but not very persuasively – telling them to do so; in fact, at the first possible instant they had distanced themselves from her as far as they ever could, taking long-awaited shelter together at some deep-forest family estate.

 

And after that, Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis became completely, terribly alone. So, naturally, after having finished his general and military education and thus acquired, at last, the much-desired freedom, he was able to do nothing else but move to the Maltese Riviera, the only Zubrowkian overseas possession, a warm and beautiful resort located in the Central Mediterranean, on a large island the shape of which the ancients compared to that of an outspread deer’s skin. It was the only place he could afford with his own scarce funds, but it proved to be just the right one. Here, on the Riviera, he owned a nice, medium-sized mansion not far away from the seashore. Count von Lutz had come here in order to try and heal his soul, and, in a more important addition, to seek pleasures and amusements that were customary for the men of his social standing, - luckily, the island turned out to be packed full of such things. And now there surely remained nothing in him which reminded anyone of that shy and sickly little boy; now he was 35 years old, tall and strong and handsome and black-mustachioed, in perfect health and shape, and certainly didn’t need anyone’s guidance. Initially, Dmitry had intended to spend less time here – maybe one or two seasons – but in the end he had already lived nine blissful years here, only visiting Zubrowka on business, rarely and unwillingly.

 

Count Dmitri loved this blessed island so very much. He cherished its delightful serenity undisturbed by anything and anyone, the quiet rhythm of its life, the classic culture preserved in its original beauty. Liked its exquisite weather (without doubt, Zubrowka with its mountains, forests, valleys and rivers was a very beautiful land, as well, but here the climate was a fat lot nicer – always warm, and no snow). Prized its green fertile valleys and clumsy mountain ranges; its deep forests of pine, spruce, cypresses, Maltese cedars, gold and honey oaks; its olive, fruit and citrus groves. Valued its humble hilltop villages famous for their wonderful apples, grapes, dates, almonds and pistachios. Admired its leisurely Mediterranean towns with their narrow cobblestone streets and multicolored cottages under red-tiled roofs, their old gothic churches and small dark coffeeshops hiding among lively palms and magnolias. Wondered at its impregnable fortresses and ancient castles some of which were long ruined and others taken over by various members of “Zubrowkian 100” elite. Appreciated its simple but excellent food, so unlike the Central European cuisine, so much more palatable than that of the cold, bleak, inhospitable distant country that was his homeland. Valued the locals which were a rather warm, kind, friendly, dusky-complexioned people (in fact, the local servants even called him in their own laid-back way – _Signore Taksá_ _s_ – and it was perfectly fine with him) possessing some considerable talents and engaged in fishing, tourist services and crafts such as jeweller’s art, lace making, glass blowing and wood carving. Not to mention the influence of the various other peoples inhabiting the place, such as Italians, Greeks, Turks, Libyans, Albanians, and even English and French. Also, of late the Maltese Riviera has become home to many Zubrowkian artists and writers who had got dissatisfied with the stuffy and rigid atmosphere of their homeland and relocated their mastership on these sunny shores.

 

Here, on the edge of the earth, on the coast of the boundless, tender, eternal sea, neither the laws of the states nor the shackles of the civilization had any control over the man; here one could merge with the nature completely and not care about anything, at peace with one’s own destiny. It was, in fact, in Zubrowka where Dmitri, being the head of an old honourable family, had to obey to absurd rituals invented long ago and strange customs honed by centuries. There, in Zubrowka, he had to serve as an example to the population: to work for charitable causes; to take part in the patronage of art and culture; to attend the Lutz Cathedral of Saint Marta (patron saint of the land) regularly; to hold grand feasts and shooting parties; and – most importantly – to be in command of the Black Hussars Regiment, the backbone of the mighty Zig-Zag Division. But here, on the Maltese Riviera, he was able, without ceasing to be a Count and a gentleman, to forget about all the tedious duties and responsibilities and to engage in anything his heart was ever in. Perhaps he _had_ felt roughly the same during his numerous hunting expeditions in Africa and India and other places, but still even there, surrounded by unbearably boring friends and relatives, Count Dmitri had never been as free and as happy as he was here. All in all, here was a true Eden on Earth.

 

…<<<…()…>>>…

 

...Fresh sea air was mixed with the scents of pine needles, almond oil and strong coffee and, in addition, with thick and greasy, albeit awfully tempting smell of pasta cooking with butter and tomato gravy, wafting from some plebeian quarter behind a shallow bay.

 

Count Dmitri leaned his elbows on the limestone parapet in the deserted part of the wide and stately Phoenician Promenade buried in verdure and flanked alternately by date palms and magnolia trees. He was clutching a smoking cigarette in his thin elegant fingers and looking at the seashore just below and in front of him, at the calm dark water of a small cove framed in rugged limestone rocks, at the landscape on either side of him. To his left, half a mile away along the shore composed of sandy, rock-skirted bays, an old derelict fortress rose from the water, its formidable turrets and powerful whitewashed walls illuminated by delicate rose-tinted glow of the setting sun. To his right were visible a succession of thickly wooded hills and a deeply serrated outline of a bold and rugged ridge of considerable altitude, densely forested and equipped with terrainkur routes on the bottoms of its rugged gorges. Farther along the coast, behind the harbor of an ancient port, several expensive hotels rose proudly, shrouded by a transparent evening haze; and farther still, on the tops of green slopes, several villages of neat white houses with red tile roofs could be discerned in the fog descending from the north-east. Above them, high mountains covered with lush, exotic evergreen vegetation overhanging the little resort town tumbled steeply down to the coast, and thin ribbons of some pathways and a railroad span and twisted among the greenery and rocky clearances. A lot of crystal-clear streams flowed from this mountain chain, but in themselves merely brooks or torrents or small waterfalls, short and unimportant.

 

Cool and mild evening breeze gently ruffled Dmitri’s jet-black hair, as if a young girl’s tender hand were caressing it. Bluish tobacco smoke curled before his eyes and swiftly flew away toward the fortress, dissolving in the salty wind. The sky was slowly becoming navy-blue, and a few streetlamps lit up along the promenade. The cold surf, having markedly resided at nightfall, surged idly towards the long, shingly, gently sloping beach which ended far below with damp sand and mud. Dark bottle-green shoal water splashed quietly, bringing with itself iodine smelling algae that richly hung from low but rather sharp and jagged rocks encircling the cove. Dmitri could even discern splinters of numerous seashells scattered at the edge of the water, and suddenly he had a strange urge to head for the old stone stairs, to come down there, to roam the beach, to collect some shells, - but at once rejected this idea, deciding it would look too childish, even though there was no one around to witness him.

 

Right over Dmitri’s head small thin cloudlets melted in the airwaves of the darkening sky, resembling the seawater ripple below, and a wealth of big, plump, regal clouds piled at the distant skyline, blazing brightly and ominously in the late sunlight, as if set on fire by celestial warships. However, they did somewhat soften the bright glowing of the dying sun. Here, on the shores of the Maltese Riviera, the sun always looked different, seemed brighter and bigger than anywhere else, as if this place were located on some strange faraway planet, still unknown to the humanity, a planet which orbited too close to its own star and still was not scorched by its heat, but remained warm and pleasant and beautiful. But to Dmitri, at this moment, the local sun seemed too small, too feverish, too resembling that lone votive candle in the family church on the day of little Zsigmond’s funeral.

 

The Count stood motionless for a long time, listening to the rustle of lazy waves. The evening surf licked the shingles quietly, as if with caution, so that even a slight fringe of foam did not appear on the low wave crests. He looked around, but as if being blind, without admiring the spreading view, ignoring the living beauty of the eternal nature, not letting his glance dwell on anything in particular, not recording whatever he saw with his distracted mind. His thoughts were occupied with quite different things. With everything that he had willfully left behind, far in the north, in the forests and mountains of a small impoverished country.

 

Dmitry inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, watching with his dark eyes, now slightly red-rimmed with the smoke, as the thin bluish tobacco cloudlet floated to the left, windswept. For nine blissful years already he had enjoyed the tranquility and unconcern of the Maltese Riviera coast. For whole damn _nine_ years. And now – and now, quite possibly, came the end of his blissful solitude away from the hordes of relatives. It was time to come back... And all because of one darned letter.

 

His mother’s letter.

 

The letter of the woman owing to whom numerous pine switch scars still remained visible on his body.

 

The woman who had always cared not about her family, her progeny, but about her own lecherous, licentious, lascivious lifestyle.

 

The woman who had hated and deeply despised her own husband, the father of her children, just because she thought him too meek and ugly and stupid, - in a word, too _unworthy_ of her, - by comparison with her countless paramours, both plebeian ones and those of noble birth.

 

The woman who had still had no compunctions about forcing him to bequeath everything to _her_ so that she could go on squandering away her children’s rightful money just to satisfy all the whims of her despicable companions.

 

The woman who had on that distant mournful day almost forgotten to light a votive candle for her dead son only because her corrupt mind had at that time been preoccupied solely with the task of covering up yet another of her disgraceful affairs with some lowly Nebelsbad paramour.

 

Count Dmitri had moved away from her eventually, had seen her only several times during the past years, even then not being able to bear to kiss her hello; but even here, by way of sea mail, she managed to reach him. She would just never, ever leave him alone.

 

And now – and _now_ that despicable woman, his so-called mother, was clearly determined to banish him from this paradise on earth. Of course. It was just like her to do this to him. How could it be otherwise?..

 

At the memories of his mother Dmitri felt a bitter lump sliding up his tobacco-smoked throat. He shook his head slightly, trying to get rid of the revolting thought, and was somewhat calmed by the majestic view of the grandiose sea. But the damn recollection still wouldn’t leave his head. So much so that he felt himself shudder a little.

 

In her latest letter sent to him the Dowager Countess demanded that her son choose himself an eligible bride and start thinking about an heir. She, personally, recommended him his good friend General Baron von Schrecker’s young niece.

 

Besides, there were those recent letters from his other friends, General Stieglitz, General von Schilling and Military Secretary Colonel Woronjezki, who literally pleaded with him, as one, to come back to Zubrowka and take part in some military plan or other. Obviously, they wanted to consolidate their pro-Italian party against the pesky social democrats currently in power and, when an opportunity occurs, try to expedite its representatives into the nonstable government.

 

In fact, since the time after the Great War when Zubrowka had at last gained independence from Austria-Hungary and then from Czechoslovakia, the tiny land has been in constant crying need of support from abroad. For this reason, the Count decided to head for Italy first with the purpose of conducting important political talks with Mussolini’s representatives, from there to visit France to discuss investment prospects with local financiers, and only after that, when considerable time will have passed, to return to Lutz.

 

The sun had already almost gone below the horizon, and only a narrow strip of purplish orange-rimmed light was still burning along the skyline over the sea. The sky directly overhead was pitch-black, stellated, and the surrounding mountains were drowned in darkness.

 

Light, sweet, balmy wind of the Maltese Riviera, redolent both of the salty sea and of conifer scent exuded by stately pines and cypresses, gently stroked Dmitri’s suntanned face and raven-black hair as he turned around, dumped the finished cigarette into the nearest trash bin and started walking briskly and determinedly across the grand promenade stretching over the vast shingly beach and almost totally devoid of people at that time. Like the last flicker of a waning candle, the residue light of the burnt-out sun touched the wet ragged rocks at the very edge of the mildly sloping shore one more time, and then the great star vanished completely below the darkening sea.

 

After a couple of minutes, without once looking back, sunk deeply in thought, Count Dmitri von Lutz disappeared behind the majestic evergreen trees.

 

Maybe it _was_ high time he came home, after all.

 

...<<<...()...>>>...


End file.
